The Body at the Tower - By Y. S. Lee Page 0,66

gain his end. Either way, a dangerously angry man would be after her. And she doubted that Harkness would be present to rescue her, this time.

She shivered. This was her fault. Her own foolish, overconfident doing. She ought never have tried to press Reid for information. What had got into her? And her inner voice immediately returned the answer: it was more that she had got into the pub. The beer had emboldened her, and the sociable ease of the place had given her licence to utter things she’d never have dared on site. What had she done?

“What’s wrong?” James’s voice was sharp with concern.

She shook her head.

“Tell me, Mary. You must.”

“‘Must’?” Ah: the authoritarian aspect of his character. She’d nearly forgotten.

“Yes, ‘must’. Things are different now, between us.” He seized her hands and shook them, but gently. “We both feel that, now.”

She looked into his eyes for the briefest of moments and their expression made her tremble. She was exultant, blissful, terrified and, half a second later, utterly in despair. Only her emotions were true, here: everything between her and James was still a lie. And she would never be able to tell him the truth about herself. Not without betraying the Agency and the women who had saved her life and made everything possible for her in the first place.

“Mary.”

Her name again, on his lips. The very thought of it made her want to weep, but she hadn’t the luxury. Instead, she drew a deep breath, nodded, and told him of her confrontation with Reid. She could reveal that much. When she’d finished, she glanced at his face again, reading the concern – no, alarm – she saw there.

“We must report this to the police.”

“Report what? That I accused a man of theft?”

“That a man with a violent temper, whom we strongly suspect of theft, may have cause to do you harm. You’re too clever not to see that whatever Reid knows, Keenan soon will.”

“The police can’t do anything about that. What d’you propose – having a bobby trail me about the site on Monday?”

His lips tightened. “You’re not going to site on Monday.”

“There! Again!”

“What?” He was genuinely mystified.

“Ordering me about, like a dim-witted child.”

“I don’t think you’re dim, much less a child.”

“But you’ve just told me what to do.”

“I’ve just told you the sensible thing to do!”

“But that’s just it – you’re telling me!” Could they have a lovers’ quarrel when they weren’t truly lovers? It seemed so. “You’ve no right to make decisions for me.”

His jaw tightened. “This isn’t about rights; it’s about common sense.”

“So you’re saying that if our positions were reversed, you’d accept my command not to go to work on Monday?” Her temper was rising fast, but at that moment she didn’t care.

“There’s no need to be theoretical about this. The difficulty is what it is.”

“And you are what you are!”

“Pray tell,” he drawled, coldly angry now.

“Arrogant, high-handed and controlling!”

“Rather that than arrogant, impulsive and irresponsible.”

She flung herself up from the sofa and stalked around the room. “It’s my life, not yours! Can’t you understand that?”

“What I understand is that you’d rather risk your safety on Monday than admit I’m right.”

“Untrue! You may well be right about Keenan, but I don’t agree with your method of dealing with it. And I certainly won’t permit you to give me orders, simply because – because—”

He’d risen when she did, as a gentleman ought. He stood now with his arms folded across his chest. “Go on – say it. ‘Because…’”

Here she floundered, unwilling to articulate just how she felt about James. Unable to assume that he felt the same way, now that he was staring at her with those cold, angry eyes. As she struggled, her sense of righteous indignation began to seep away, leaving only despair. It didn’t matter how this argument ended. Suddenly, she felt bone-weary. Deep behind her temples, a headache was blossoming. “Because,” she said wearily, “you’re concerned for my safety. I know that, and I am too, and I’ll not be cavalier about it. But I refuse to go to the police just yet.”

He was silent for a long moment. Then he said, “What about Monday?”

“I’ve not decided.”

“What do you propose to do now?”

“Well, what about working out the precise nature of the link between Harkness, Keenan and Reid?”

Instead of replying, he pushed the tea tray towards her and said, “Will you pour?” The familiar rituals helped to smooth things between them: tea, cream and sugar, sandwiches, cakes. Once their hands